


Miles to Go

by Lidsworth



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen, Mild Gore, Tolkien Secret Santa 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 14:08:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8983981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lidsworth/pseuds/Lidsworth
Summary: Maeglin takes control of his own life for once.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pimsri](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=pimsri).



> A/N: Merry Christmas Pimsri! It is I, your secret Santa! I must say I was ecstatic when you said that you loved Maeglin, because I love him too! My only problem was deciding what to sit down and write, because I have so many ideas for him! And btw, your art is amazing !  
> Since Maeglin is such a sad character, I wanted to write something happy for him! Well, sort of. Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. Again, Merry Christmas! 
> 
> Warnings: Mild gore, foul language.  
> A/N: wow this was one of the longest things I’ve written in a while. Mind my errors, I never catch them all, and do tell me what you think! Title taken from Robert Frost’s, “Stopping by woods on a snowy evening” as well as some of the content in the fic!  
> Enjoy!  
> read it on [my tumblr ](http://inkstranger.tumblr.com/post/154873915874/an-merry-christmas-pimsri-it-is-i-your-secret)

He swears that he sees her figure lingering in the corner of the doorway, her white garb illuminated by the faint light that the near gone candle radiates at his bedside. Maeglin does not risk looking at her though, for he is granted so little time as it is (and he fears that if he turns his gaze towards her, she will disappear).

Instead his sharp gaze re-counts the supplies laid out on his bed—an extra tunic and leggings, shoes, herbs, lembas stolen from the kitchen—he nods, having mentally checked everything. Now all that he needs—what he’s _lacking_ is courage.

That’s why, he supposes, that Aredhel stands in the doorway. 

She is with him now as she was when he left Nan Elmoth. And that is all the courage he needs.

000

Anxious, Maeglin attempts to steady his breath while treading quietly through the halls. It’s impossible to keep entirely silent though, especially when his own shadow dances like a wraith on the dimly lit corridor wall.

Or worse, Turgon’s watch.

The dark elf pauses occasionally, standing still against the stone, ears twitching frantically as heavy footsteps echo in the distance. The white knuckled grip around his sword tightens as he waits for the sound to pass over, eyes narrowing into the darkness as if anticipating the arrival of the castle guards.

At this point, Turgon had to have realized that Maeglin had ditched dinner, and there is a strong possibility that he has already sent guards searching into his room.

They will have discovered his goodbye note, and he can only imagine a livid Turgon pouring over the words in rage (he was not _kind_ in his note. He hid nothing, not from Turgon’s insane paranoia to Idril’s judgmental, prudish personality. Whatever effects his words will have in _that_ family, he doesn’t give a damn). 

Another deep, wholesome breath, aimed to alleviate fear, rattles through the long corridor.

He is still _frightened_ though. He shakes as he recalls Turgon’s warnings, wrings a hand through his hair  as he _remembers_ the example made of his father.

The screaming, the shouting, the begging, the “thud” as Eol fell, and then the silence. Only this time, Maeglin sees himself. 

He is overwhelmed.

His sword falls and “clangs” to the ground, the sharp, metallic noise reverberating loudly throughout the fortress. Had he feared discovery before, he is sick with worry now.  In that moment, he thinks of returning to Turgon, humiliated and ashamed, succumbing to his crimes and kneeling at his King’s feet, begging for forgiveness like the _worthless_ elf he is.

But Maeglin is not worthless. His mother told him so.

No, he is not worthless. Idril told him he was—told him he was when she glared at him with her nose held high in the air, with that ugly pout at on her slimly lips, and with her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

That day she had deemed him unfit. And because of their princess, Gondolin had deemed him unfit.

And the thought of kneeling to such a repulsive woman (and he is _sick_ knowing he had loved her once) enrages him. He will not stay in Gondolin—he will not.

The fury fills his veins like blistering iron, enough to give him the determination to stand, and wearily he grabs his weapon. He is still afraid, and this will not change.

But freedom Is worth all the fear in the world.

The handle of his sword is still warm in his grip, and even through his thick gloves he can feel it’s pulse, can feel it’s soul. It’s awake—or reawakening. Much like Maeglin himself.

And he holds it tighter than ever, because now he knows he’ll have a reason to defend himself.

He has already wasted too much time and made too much noise, and now he must face the consequences.

For when he turns around, he is met with pale blue eyes and star golden hair.

000

Glorfindel is bigger than him. He is older than him.

But Maeglin was taught by Aredhel, who herself was trained by Celegorm the Fair and Curufin the Crafty. He is by extension, a pupil of Feanor. And what he lacks from his mother’s side, he gains from his father’s.  Eol who learned skills from the dwarves—who braved the dark woods infested with the spawn of Morgoth taught his son well, and truly, the Anguirel attested to that.

Glorfindel is not stronger than him. No one in Gondolin, save for Tugon, really is.

But Glorfindel and Ecthelion together offer a not so welcoming challenge.

They speak once in warning, and Maeglin responds with a defensive stance.

Time seems to slow as the two lords charge forward.

Aredhel is with him still, her rough, ghostly hands steadying his arms and positioning him.

He prepares himself as Glorfindel throws his weight into the first strike, holding his blade high above his head to stop the attack midway. Maeglin’s knees bend into a crouch as he fends off the golden lord’s blow, and with his own inferior strength, he fights to push upwards.

He hasn’t forgotten Ecthelion, who’s blade makes to ram into his side. But by the time it nearly slices him, the younger elf has already unraveled himself from Glorfindel, and quickly takes a step back.

Glorfindel’s sword cuts through the air with a deadly force, and Ecthelion nearly falls forward as his weapon strikes nothing. Had Maeglin waited just a bit longer, Glorfindel would have beheaded Ecthelion.

They seem to realize this as well. And in their horror, Maeglin strikes.

000

He doesn’t kill them. He isn’t a kinslayer.

But they will die soon, if no one tends to their wounds fast enough. He missed their vital organs for the most part, but the blood loss will definitely make up for what he didn’t get.  Heavy guilt gnaws at his insides, but he continues onwards.

Yet Maeglin reassures himself, gruesome and cruel they might have been, his actions were _not_ wrong.  They challenged his freedom when he sought a peaceful escape and thought to punish him with death rather than understanding.

He reminds himself though, as he reaches the courtyard, that it is not their faults. Not entirely at least.

Turgon is much to blame.

He has conditioned them to believe that freedom is an _evil,_ he has brainwashed them into believing that wanting to live is bad. Maeglin hopes that if their final encounter does not set them free, that death will (because it is a sad thing, to live like they do in Gondolin).

He forces his body into the open courtyard, not coming unscathed from the previous battle. All the while, the tip of Eöl’s blade skids across the stone, ripping the silence in two as Maeglin increases his pace. The gate is a ten-minute walk away, but Maeglin will make it in five, lest the small noise he makes garners the attention of the watch men.

And no doubt the guards have been dispatched all over Gondolin now. The bloody mess he left behind inside of the fortress was enough to keep them at bay for the time being, but by now they have gone to Turgon and he has sent them all throughout the kingdom.

So if he wants to escape, he will need to make it in five.

Yet nervous as he is, the glimmering moon and the pale stars gleam above head, and the welcoming scent of pine and cedar, carried by the cool night breeze, will him to .  

Once more his hand grasps the worn hilt of the Anguirel, and he trudges forward with the weight of the world on his shoulders. What pain bothers him he grunts and continues, he will need to ignore for the meantime.

There will be guards stationed at the white gates, and it will take all he has left to best them (though if they are anything like Glorfindel and Ecthelion in skill, he will make it out with life).

With newfound hope, he plows forward quickly now, after a gust of wind seizes him. He is in Nan Elmoth again, young and free to run through the dark woods and high grass, ignorant like he was before his mother taught him to resent his Sindar side, before his father threatened to trap him.

The woods are calling to him, _singing_ to him (he had heard his uncle say that as Noldor, they heard the music in the sea, but Maeglin heard only waves crashing against the shore. No, it is the woods that hold his music because he is not one of _them_ ).

Platinum and tall, the gates come into view and he cannot help but smile. The grin is childish and stretches from ear to hear, and his heart beats within his chest like a hammer striking an anvil, and for the first time in _years,_ Maeglin is happy.

Though he is quick to restrain his joy, and instead focusses on the guards who stand ready at the gate.

Only, there are none. There is only one he can see.

He stands taller than the average elf (though he is not alone, as his mother had told Maeglin, and if all goes as planned, Maeglin will meet this elf), clad in white like his sister and wielding a sword that glimmers like the starlight.  
  
The intricate crown is gone from his forehead, and instead a simple diadem sits atop of his head.

Upon closer inspection, lingering in the hedge, is Idril with Tuor beside her.

Maeglin stops and then he pales.

His heart is thudding inside of his chest, but now for an entirely different reason.

There is a flurry of anger, fear, and hate swirling in his gut all at once, and the young elf nearly falls on his back as he comes face to face with the King and his court.

For a while neither speaks.

Turgon keeps his gaze averted from Maeglin, and instead takes a sudden interest in the cobble below his feet. Maeglin can tell that his uncle is thinking. But he doesn’t give him a chance to speak his warning.

“Uncle, I’m leaving.” He begins plainly, “I can’t stay here anymore.”

There is a collective gasp. No one expected him to speak first, let alone be so blunt about his treason.

“You are bold, just like your mother,” acknowledges the king carefully, as if he chooses his words with caution, “but please, nephew, do not die like your father. Do not make me fulfill his curse.”

When Turgon meets his eyes, Maeglin’s heart drops.

The expression…It’s so _sad._ But sad is too little a word to describe just exactly _how_ Turgon looks. That would be like saying molten metal was just hot, and that would be a lie. Molten metal scorching, _blistering._

Turgon looks empty. Defeated almost.  

“Uncle, do not make me fight you,” pleads the elf, yet despite himself, Maeglin raises his blade following Turgon’s, ready to defend himself, “Let me leave. If you know me as my mother’s son, then you know that I cannot stay here.”

Low blow, yes. But it needs to be said. Maeglin does _not_ want to fight his uncle, not the elf who, despite his flaws has raised him to the best of his abilities. It would be like watching Eöl die all over again.

And for a short while, Turgon _looks_ like he’ll reconsider killing his nephew, and at the mention of his sister’s name, something in his eye softens. But then _she_ speaks.

“Father! Do not let him leave, he will tell others of our location! He’ll bring evil to Gondolin just like his mother did,” she puts on a convincing act, desperate and throwing herself in front of her father (or would have, had Tuor not restrained her), “You cannot trust him father! He hurt Glorfindel and Ecthelion ! He is evil, his father’s curse is alive and well in him!”

What little chance that Maeglin has vanishes at Idril’s words.

Certainly, her lie has its basis, and his assault on Glorfindel and Ecthelion had not help his case.

But as always, she assumed what she knew little of, and stirred the hearts of those around her. She was good at that.

And clearly her words have stirred Turgon. No longer does he see his silent nephew yearning for freedom, he sees the monster Idril has created.

He sees Eöl’s son.

The King strikes faster than Maeglin could have expected, and nearly sends the smaller elf’s blade flying into the air. Though he grounds himself, bends his knees as Turgon leans into his thrust. He’s crushing him with his weight, and Maeglin’s arms are trembling as his muscles strain underneath the pressure.

And then Turgon trips Maeglin, slips his leg underneath his calve and sends him tumbling to the ground with a “thud”.

Turgon’s sword seems to follow him, nearly glued to his neck like a magnet.

His eyes roll backwards as his head hits the stone pavement, and he can see Idril hover deeper into the dark brush with Tuor close by her side.

Maeglin hasn’t the strength to stand up, his anger won’t even allow such a thing. There is no point now. Turgon’s blade is plunging towards his neck and Idril is smirking above him. This was a bad idea. He should’ve have stayed, he should have—

There are hands on his wrist. Though Maeglin isn’t certain if “hands” are the correct word to use. They are wispy and cold, clammy like live moss hidden underneath dead oak bark. He shudders as the sensation, until it seizes him into the air, that is.

He is on his feet again, energy revived and pain dulled.  It as if someone else is behind him, centering him, _leading him._ Almost like his mother was hours ago, charging into battle at his side, steadying his hand until he made it through the fight.

But this one is different. His moves are gently yet deadly, they are twirling like a leaf in the wind, yet striking with the strength of a tall sycamore.

They are precise as a hammer striking an anvil, as final as water cooling white hot metal.

This is the style of Eöl, his father, who is here with him now.

Turgon knows he has lost when Maeglin carries a new sort of rage in his eyes, when he fights like a dangerous wood elf.  He realizes too late that this is not his nephew he is battling, that this is something else, something stronger.

Yet he fights still, strikes desperately because losing Maeglin will be like losing _her_ all over again, and Turgon doubts he could survive that. He doubts he could live knowing he failed his sister twice.

Maeglin was his one chance to make things _right,_ and he’ll be damned if he lets this childish notion of “freedom” ruin that. Can Maeglin not see that he is just trying to _protect_ him?

So he fights, clouded by passion, he fights. And he loses with Eöl’s blade straight through his shoulder.

There is a feral shrill that fills the air, and at once Tuor charges from the bushes and makes to strike Maelgin down. The young elf beats him to it, slashing the mortal across the chest before he finishes. He falls to the ground with a squelch, right on top of a quivering Turgon.

Idril swallows, left alone with only her lies. But for once, she shuts up, and Maeglin considers walking away to spare himself the trouble of looking at her (this was his mother’s home. The _last_ thing he wants to see is the wench who made his life unbearable. That is _not_ how he wants to remember Gondolin).

But his anger seizes him.

His blade is at her neck, still and steady.

She pales, blood draining from her face faster than it does from the bodies of the two men below them.

Maeglin remembers the murder of his mother and the death of his father, the trauma of leaving Nan Elmoth, the fear of Eöl chaining him, the fear of Turgon killing him, and his blade shakes.

He remembers _asking_ her for help, as a friend, as a _cousin._

He remembers her calling him a monster (not to his face, of course. She was too much of a coward to actually get to know him, he had to hear it from the Lords who avoided him like the plague), claiming he had some _darkness_ in his heart. What darkness? What _darkness_? Was it the trauma she sensed, or his lowly sindar blood? Perhaps it was the _hate_ he felt for her when she turned Gondolin against him, the gut-wrenching disgust he felt when she carelessly ruined what chance of socialization he had.

Or maybe it was the jealousy? She got happy, she got married, she got _pregnant,_ her life was a fairytale. And his…his was a nightmare, and she was the evil witch in his story.

Maeglin wants to scream at her, to bawl, to cry. He wants to make her hurt, _just_ like she made him hurt.

But he can’t. He’s not evil. He’s not Idril.

So ever so quietly, he asks her: “What did I ever do to you?”

And he leaves.

Sheaths his blade and pushes straight through the gates and runs.

He runs for hours, runs until the sun peaks through the trees, and continues until he is so deep into the thick foliage that it appears like night has seized the sky once again.

And oh, how tired he is. His muscles ache and his legs protest, and his lids are heavy with sleep. His parents’ souls have left him, and he is but an injured body whose spirit is brighter than Silmaril itself.

Yet he is _exhausted_ and would love to rest—just for an hour or two. But he can’t, Turgon may still send his men (if he is alive, that is).

But the woods are so lovely and they are dark and deep, and how Maeglin would love to sleep. But he has miles to go before he reaches Himring.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   

_But I have promises to keep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep._

 


End file.
